Asylum
by xJaceClary
Summary: Clary Fray has suffered through a tragic childhood. After escaping an institution for crazies, she must survive the horrifying phases of reality. In a dark twist of reality and horrid fantasy, how far will you run? R&R. All pairings. AU/AH.
1. Prologue

_This is my first The Mortal Instruments fanfic, but definitely not the first fanfic I've written. I've been trying to rewrite this story since like... I don't actually remember, and it still isn't finished. I suck at these things. Most of my friends say that it's very good, but I'm not satisfied. I mean, the grammatical errors, typos, and everything - including the narration techniques. It sucks. Look, I know I'm pulling myself down, but it's what I've done since I started writing a story. I'm not really confident._

__By the way, sorry for the typo-grammatical errors. _  
><em>

_Anyways, I'm apologize for that. Read and I hope everyone enjoys. _

_**Disclaimer:** Last thing I checked, my name is not Cassandra Clare. I wish it is, actually._

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

One thousand and ninety-five days.

An insignificant period of time that I had spent inside the white room, where darkness devours me. I had been concealing myself away from the nightmares that have haunted me for years, and from the one I fear most. I used to call him father. He started hitting when I was eight years of age, and it was too hard to reminisce. I never told mother, or anyone, because fear had already consumed me. He had done other things, and I was too dumb to say anything.

Turning my head sideways, I noticed the remarkable scratch on the wall, made out of blood. It was my first sign of rebellion. I ran my nails against the surface until my fingers bled, smearing the plain color. Distantly, I could still smell the faintest scent of the stain. The other patients were screaming in pity and despair. I remain on the bed. My wrists are bruised, cuffed with rusted metal—certain that I wouldn't escape.

Again.

I hear the door push open, and light breaks apart of the entire darkness. Lifting my head toward the direction in response, the nurse steps in with a silver tray in between her fingers. She wore a tight uniform, pale as milk, and her dark curls held through with hairclips. I stare as she form another cunning smile on her red lips, and drop the tray over the desk. She prepares for the injection. I feel my heart heave, as she strode towards me, and her hand pulling my arm out.

"Ms. Fray." I hear her call me. The way she pronounces my name is even more horrifying, and I move away from her. "You need to take your medicine." I knock the syringe out of her fingers, and she steps back in astonishment, gasping in angst. Strike. Her head shakes, gesturing her hands over for help. Two men enter my cell, dressed in white uniform, and grip on my arms—their nails digging into my skin.

I move away. I wriggled, but it is useless. I scream sharply, but they hear nothing. I cry, allowing vast amount of tears stain my cheeks, but they feel nothing. The needle pricks deep into my arm, and I can feel the viscous fluid seeping through my tightening muscles. I stiffened. Tears spill out, as the men drop me over the bed, and I cannot move an inch. I watch my chest rise and sink rapidly along with every burning breath I exhale with every minute spent lying there, motionless.

Anger rushes through me as another man came in. I wished none of these is true, but my eyes say differently. He stands before me, his hands clasp together and his lips forming a wicked smile. I wish he had died, and that I wouldn't have to be here. I wish he ended it all when he had the chance. I wish none of these had to happen.

"How dare you come here?" I choke out.

I winced in too much pain, the metal touching my bruises. The drug has already taken over my entire body, and I am too heavy to sit up and lunge at him. He must have ordered to inject me another drug to weaken me.

"Clarissa, my dear."

I ragged my breaths, dragging myself away from him. His face tilts nearer, and his scent makes me want to vomit.

"I'm here to kill you." He pulls out the gun from his back—similar to what he had used to shot me six years ago. The tip brushes against my skin, and I trembled with fear. "And I won't miss again." His statements sounds very promising—reminding me that it was a mistake that he had missed before. I should have been gone six years ago, and he would have been satisfied. His lips touch my forehead, before moving backwards, and level the gunpoint directly into my eyes. I fluttered them shut, tears breaking out.

One gunshot. One piercing scream. And shallow darkness.

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><p><em>How was it? Reviews.<em>


	2. Chapter One

_I'm back. I've been working on that chapter one and two for like a week now, and now I've decided to merge them, because the chapter one seems very short. So, I wasn't satisfied. I had to merge them, and here it goes. I hope you enjoy._

__By the way, sorry for the typo-grammatical errors. ___Read and I hope everyone enjoys._

_**Disclaimer:** Last thing I checked, my name is not Cassandra Clare. I wish it is, actually._

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

I bolt away from the mattress, screaming voicelessly.

Fingers thrust under my raven curls and run those nails against my scalp, exploring the surface and reminiscing the moment when he appeared in front of me.

It had been years since I watch the mansion burn. The smoke that I inhaled remained inside my chest and the wounds that have been carved against my skin whilst fighting for my freedom are difficult enough to conceal. I hear my chest thump under layers of muscles, and the hint of fear, with pieces of his voice, erupts from every beat.

Peering my eyelids from being shut, warm sunlight breaks through the glass and strikes directly on my cheeks, shoving the darkness from the entire space. I glance sideways and watch as the clock tick from the bedside desk, before casting the covers from my soaked legs.

Medicines, I thought, dropping two pills down into my throat, before swallowing it along with the water inside the half-filled glass beside the clock. I had been on medications since I stepped out of the institution that possibly keeps me temporarily sane. Somehow, there is something wrong inside my head—like I'm neurotic bitch on crack.

I thought it over again. A memory that emerged from the very corner of my mind, and one of the worst. It pained me almost on the edge of death, when I couldn't fight anymore for everything that I had tried to keep intact, and watching it repeatedly. I sniffle, which made me realize that tears had already rolled down my cheeks, and the image of him pointing the gun directly into my forehead, and I was pleading him not to pull the trigger. Impossible, I snort at myself, he would have done it because he can but he didn't, which made things much more confusing than it was before.

I shrug off the thought. Dragging myself out of the mattress, I rise to my bare feet and stride towards the doorway leading inside the bathroom, where I find myself shivering as the atmosphere feels so cold and damp, like water had mixed with air.

Switching the faucet, water comes running down into the sink as I stare at myself in front of the mirror, before throwing a handful of water against my face. The scars molded against my delicate skin years before are visible enough, making it difficult to conceal. I freeze as my fingertips touched the long line of memory over my shoulders, recalling how he scratched me when I tried to escape.

He was drunk that evening. His alcoholic obsession and uncomfortable habits of lashing out on insane things made me fear him the most. It was the moments when he would unusual things, like surprise me with a slap, or kick me in the shin, or break my ankle until I could only crawl into the floorboards, or when he wants to see me dying.

I strip the clothes, letting them drop into the ground. As I step into the shower room, I turn the knob and the water runs through every part of my small figure. Half of my mind is still unconscious, but the rest remains thinking about my father—how it used to be when he acted like a real parent, and how it suddenly changed, killing me. Resting my head against the wall and listening to the droplets of water over my back, his image appears beneath my green eyes, smirking wickedly and there is nothing more horrifying than remembering how it all happened so fast that I couldn't hear myself reconsidering him again as my father.

Scrubbing the sponge against my arms, his scent remains and blood mixes with the thin, damp atmosphere. Tears fill behind my eyelids, attempting to roll down again, and I can't hold them back any longer. I feel them sliding and warm against my cheeks, along with the water run-ning through my face, and shrug off.

How long will I be able to stand and shake everything away?

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><p>I stared at the rusted dots over the mirror, before pushing my arms inside the sleeves and down to my figure. It another day to start with, and to finish. His image never left my mind for the past several minutes that I had spent inside the shower room. I tear my gaze from the reflection, grabbing the comb resting from the desk, and glide it over my curls.<p>

Autumn leaves swirls from each branch of the nearby Maple tree on the sidewalk. In another week, school semester begins, and I need to attend different classes like once I did in grade school. I circle towards the bed, sinking into the mattress again, and shut my eyelids. Darkness swallows the light, but the noises remain filling my ears with such beautiful melodies. Emptiness fills my mind for one second, and silence.

I rise from the bed, darting my eyes towards the clock. Time readseight o'clock. Mother would be leaving in a moment. She must have already prepared pancakes by now, and wrapped her hair into a tight bun. I pull the drawer out, dragging a green sweater, and placed it over my shirt—shielding me from the unusually cold autumn breeze.

Then, I stride past the doorway, reaching the cozy living room. I glance at my mother, who had been standing behind the couch, gathering the paperworks she had been working last night. She wears a gray skirt, along with her dark-shaded jacket and a white blouse under, matched with black heels. Dropping my perspired hand against the walls, she turns her eyes towards me.

"Morning," she greets.

I nod. Thrusting the pile of documents inside her bag, I watch as she makes her way behind the counter, where a plate of pancakes rests. She pours her emptied cup with another round of strong, black coffee, and takes a long sip down her dried throat.

"Pancakes?" I shook my head, forming a faint smile on my lips. She knows how I never liked pancakes, especially if poured with caramel syrup and melted butter. "Coffee, then." She reaches for another cup, and fills it with another round of warm drink, before passing it to me. I settle over the high seat, wrapping my fingers around the cup.

"Did you sleep well?" I turn my eyes towards her. It had been the first question she asks me every morning, hoping that the nightmares would stop appearing inside my mind, like it had been for the past six years. I had gone silent after her question. No. "Yes," I said. Lie, I chided myself. He appeared into my head again, with an incorrigible smirk flashed on his lips, which sent a swift jolt of fear over my spine.

"Is Luke coming?" I ask.

She nods and gestures her hands, saying, "twenty minutes." Glimpsing at the clock and groans, she comes to the realization that she is already running late. Her fingers reaches and pulls the pins away from her curls, before waving the strands of her hair away from her forehead. I watch as she faces me, cupping my cheeks in between her hands, and kisses my forehead.

"I need to go." A kiss on my left cheek. "I can't be late." Then, she exits the kitchen with her handbag and cradles the documents over her arms again. She sighs, asking another question, "Are you sure you're alright here?" I nod again, losing my voice entirely as the silence filling the spaces between us devours it. Then, she slips past the front door.

She's gone.

I drop myself over the couch, locking my eyes with the sunlight beaming right through my face. Minutes pass, and the cup of coffee she prepared for me earlier had already gone cold, as I remain half-lying on the couch, shifting through random thoughts. I push myself from the soft pillows, resting the back of head over the headrest and stare as the ceiling fan circles around in my sight, as though I have been hallucinating again. I rise from being seated, making my way back to the kitchen and grab the half-filled cup of coffee next to the plate of pancakes from the corner. I see the time.

Eight minutes since she left for work, and since I lied down into the couch, drowning myself over thoughts. As I push the sleeves to the forearm, scars appear again before me, and me-mories hurt too much to reminisce. He was holding the blade closer, running them painfully against my arm and blood came out from the edge. He did it several times over, which leaves me wondering why.

He wants me dead.

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><p>I watch as the rain drenches over the windowpanes, showering the entire city, as the sun hides behind the massive storm clouds that has been brewing since last night. Drops of water touch the rose petals planted outside the glass, inside the box, and it clearly needs no watering.<p>

Luke hasn't arrived yet. It already had been three longs hours since Mother left for work, and the rain suddenly poured down from the gray clouds. I watch the rain persistently soak the wide streets ofNew York, where cabs and other vehicles race with each other, and on the side were pedestrians with umbrellas of different color and design. Some of them wear waistcoats and others don't.

Silence has accompanied me for the past three hours. I am seated over the couch, next to the window inside my bedroom, watching as the rain pours over our apartment, and there is nothing else but strange, yet dreadful silence. I fall even more silent, as thoughts gush through every part of my mind, covering the memories that have bothered since I had awakened myself from the horrifying nightmare.

Low whistling shatters the entire silence, and in my surprise, I shift my head towards the door, before swinging my legs away from the surface and rise as his head peeks inside. I found his eyes, blue as the ocean, and shot me an apologetic look, before shutting the door behind him. I fiddle my fingers with each other, and turn back into the glass as anxiety distances me away from him.

His reflection shows as he leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and sighs. "I apologize for being late," he finally spoke, as the silence starts building again with bricks and stones. I have known Luke for such a very long time, beyond those six years here inNew York. He had been my mother's best friend since college, and despite Father's demands to stay away from him, she never did. She trusts him more than anyone could possibly have—more than I do.

I face him. "You should have been here three hours ago," I inform him, despite the fact that he is very aware of that. He nods in response, and silence brews between us again. I take a glimpse of his figure and he looks exhausted at the early afternoon—perspiration dousing over his back, his muscles tighten with every breath, and his eyes flickering with the sunlight immediately beaming from the glass, over my back and into his face. He hitches a deep breath, and lifts his head again.

"Lunch," he asks me. I nod in approval, before striding towards the closet and drag a dress hanging from the rack. "Clary." I turn my head back to him, and wait for another word. He nibbles his lower lip, before pressing a finger over his mouth and says, "I really am sorry for being extremely late. There was an emergency in the bookstore, and I can't leave my sister alone." I nod again, understanding his excuse.

Then, he left. Just the way mother left for work. He shuts the door, and the silhouette against the floorboards disappears as he made his way back into the living room. He spoke nothing more, after stating his apologies, and after I nodded in understanding.

Mother had introduced me to him in a very inappropriate moment and unfortunate way. I was almost lying on his front porch, bleeding as the wound on my limb remained open and fresh after Father shot me. It was intended in my head, but Mother had managed him to push him away as a strangled cry escaped her narrow throat. She knocked on the door, hushing me to silence as I scream in so much pain. He stood there in surprise; his lips parted after a sudden curse coming out of his throat, before dragging himself down to me and carried me over his arms. My vision was swimming at every corner of the street, and darkness kept still as the evening had gotten deeper. He ran towards his truck, and placed me on the passenger seat. Behind him was Mother, sobbing as another woman with golden strands flowing from her shoulders came running out from the front door. She caught my mother's arms into a loving embrace, and my mother sobbed over the woman's shoulders, returning the hug.

I stared at his face. He looked young, and yet, devastated about my condition. There were moments when I heard him curse silently—cursing about how he was going to strangle Father, for doing this to his daughter. I have felt the rage boiling under his skin and the urge to kill my father at that moment. Then, he faced my mother. She was still crying. I was still bleeding, and the blood stained the white fabric he had wrapped around my leg. I watch as he cups her face, and said things I never heard because I was delirious, before running on the other side of the truck and drove away.

I reopened my eyes from being sewn, and a scream immediately escaped my mouth at the sight of the white walls built around me. There were images floating inside my head, and the nurses burst inside, injecting me a fluid that calms patients. And then, silence. Mother came in, followed by Luke, and the woman with blond hair. The nurses left, after a few more words with Mother, and I was breathing heavily.

Years have passed. Terrible ones. Nightmares have finally made its way inside my head, flooding me with fear, and there were no nights that I would have a decent sleep. Mother has decided to consult several psychologists because of my situation, and their conclusions lead to one thing—send me inside an institution for a short period as a recovery from the traumatizing events that have happened in my life.

Mother had no choice. I spent the next three years inside the institution; suffering with horrifying night terrors, hostile nurses, and with the fear that has entirely consumed me. I hated my mother for that. She sent me inside that place, where I had been locked in the same room for three years, being sent with small amount of food two times a day and blood dried against my skin. The nurses cuffed my wrists with rusted metals for two whole years, after attempting to escape, which I almost did. I could've handled myself better if she never took the psychologists' advices. I almost died inside that place, as the fear eats me slowly.

Luke leans on the doorframe, and asks, "Ready?" I turn my head to him and return the dress into the rack, before nodding in agreement. He straightens himself, as I stride past the doorway and avoiding him from noticing my bloodshot eyes. I hear his footsteps behind me, after shutting the door, and we both reach the living room.

"Are you alright?" He asks, which surprised me.

"Good." No. I want to shake myself and tell him the truth for once in my life, but it is harder than convincing myself. A sigh escapes from my throat and breaks another faint smile on my lips.

"Okay, princess." He smiles, as his hands rise. "Nothing fancy."

I shrug again, and nod. I know that. He never liked dining in fancy restaurants, but he makes an exception whenever there're occasions or if Mother asks him to. "Better," I say.

I smile widely, and this time, it is real.

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><p>He steps onto the brakes, and the truck stops dead on tracks. I watch as his hands travels towards the ignition, pulling the keys out, and himself from the driver's seat. I follow him down to the pavements and stare directly towards the diner built before my eyes.<p>

A smile curves on his lips, before glimpsing down at me again and states, "Your mother and I used to come here every after school." I face him, with a questioning gaze, and find his eyes very blue, as the sunlight beams upon them, like gems from a dark cave. "It's her favorite place." I nod again and shift my eyes back into the diner. This is nothing fancy, as Luke describes it, and he is right. In his eyes, memories are drawn behind those sapphire irises—memories of those good times at this particular place, with my mother.

"Really?" I ask him, forming my lips into a thin line.

"Yeah." He drops his hands on his hips and remains silent, curling his mouth in an odd way. "I wonder if it's still her favorite," he breaks in silence. I stare him, and turn back into the diner.

"You should take her here sometimes," I suggest. He raises his eyebrows at me, questioning my statement, and suddenly brushes past me. I follow him, linking my arms around him. "Remember," I grin leaning closer against his arms. He groans as I curve my lips into smile. I notice his irritated gaze—avoiding my eyes—as we both enter the diner. Bells chime, signifying our entrance, which grab several attentions.

We arrive to our seat, the empty couch next to the glass. "Luke." I touch his hands, which are cold and rough, calloused with driving his truck around the block and into another and managing books from one shelf into the next. "Don't you even dare give me that attitude. I'm well-aware of your affection for my mother and how you clearly fancy her. It is quite obvious, actually." I lean myself against the couch, crossing my arms over my chest, and shot him a look.

"Since when?"

"Since you carried me from the front porch without Mother saying anything, like you're even more devastated than she is," I answer. He is silent, and he doesn't need to say anything. In the short period of time we've known each other, there is always a sharp connection between me and him, like we're part of each other; like I've known him before I met him. "I knew, Luke, and I trust you." He nods, and I sigh in relief.

Pulling my fingers from his hands, I gaze out the window, watching as people come and go, inside their vehicles or crossing the lanes or inside the shops. Some of them seem happy, and others are quite lost. A voice arrives closer and my head shifts towards the direction, seeing a woman stopping next to our table—an apron wrapped around her waist and a blue long-sleeved blouse on top and black wide skirt below. I gaze as her dark curls cascade from her soaked neck, down to her shoulders, and to her slim arms. She sighs in exhaustion.

She grabs her pen and pad and says, "Can I have your orders now?" I wince at the sound of her thick Irish accent. Luke straightens himself up, resting his elbows over the table and his chin on his knuckles.

He clears his throat, and speaks, "Headstarts." I notice him wink at me. I turn back into the woman, her dark, long eyelashes fluttering, before my hands reach to the laminated menu card from the side. "Two cheeseburgers, two diet Cokes, and a very lovely burrito," the woman scribbles the words on her pad. I shake my head, smiling, and she walks away, swaying her hips, and her heels clicking into the ground.

"Too much," I mutter. He brings his fingers up to his eyes, rubbing them furiously, before sighing again. "You won't hurt her, right?" I watch as he turns to me, surprised with my sudden question. He smirks, and shakes head. I know that he won't, but the question just erupted.

The woman comes back. She drops the food over our table, before placing a hand on her hip. "Anything else?" I shake my head, losing my voice entirely. She turns back and leaves. More customers fill in the diner. Luke has already started his cheeseburger, and I grab mine. We ate in silence, allowing the emptiness to consume our voices, and it remains quiet until I finally finished my drink.

"School starts in a week," he started.

"Like I have a choice." I kick myself for being responding like that, but somehow it feels better, allowing him to read what's truly inside my mind at that moment. I have never trusted anyone since my escape from the institution, scared of what their intentions might be; nor did I allow anyone to read my thoughts and hatred for the world.

He doesn't look mad, or upset about how I replied him, but he rather seems concern. "I know that everything had gone so fast, but your mother doesn't want you to lock yourself inside your room for the next whole year." I nod again. Before I enter the institution, I spent most of the three years inside the same room, fearing what would be outside the door, and it went for such a very long time.

"I know," I say.

Lowering my head and avoiding his eyes, heavy tears burn behind my eyelids and I try to hold them back. It was the nightmares that keep me from waking on a normal day and stroll down the pavements ofNew Yorkunder a very sunny weather. I hold myself together, wrapping my fingers around each arms and rub them warmly.

"I could lend you some books, if you'd like." As I turn towards his eyes, he creeps a reassuring smile on his lips. I wish he were my father. I wish he were there to save me. But, he weren't, and it hurts too much at the thought that my father is one of my worst nightmares.

"Sure," I agreed. "What happened to mother?" The words slipped out my mouth uncontrollably, and he shot his eyes towards mine. I gaze at him, as he stares back, and I wait for him to answer.

"What do you mean," asks him, as he frowns.

"You told me she used to be strong and independent," I explain to him, sounding confused. "But, the way she acts and how she handles the situation, it was far from how you described her." She is strong.

I watch as he lowers his head. As he turns back at me, his eyes are glittering with ocean sparks. "She fell in love," he mumbles, and his tonality implies sadness and pity.

"Was he really mean?" I ask him again.

Luke smiles, his dimples burying deep into his face, and shakes his head, "No. He was sweet and loving." I huff in surprise. I never expected my father to be so nice after what he has done to me.

"Then, what happened?"

"I can't answer that," he says. I frown.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to hurt you," his voice raises. Freezing at his statement, I leaned back on my seat and a sigh escaped my lips. "I've hurt myself before. I can handle myself." There is uncertainty in my voice. It hurts, like burning my throat down, locking up and setting it on fire. He lifts his head, staring at me with concern.

I freeze again at his words, "you happened." I let tears slip past my eyelids, and exhale as the anger heaving inside my chest rumbles. Memories keep flooding inside my mind, drowning every thought that has kept me alive for six years, and the fear taking over my entire body like the fluid rushing through my veins as I fall into the ground.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you that," he apologizes.

A grin spreads into my lips, securing with such mindful thoughts, I press them together, binding it with such bliss to cover the anger visible inside my eyes and the hate in my heart. "This tastes wonderful, by the way," I say, chewing the part of burger inside my mouth, grinding it in between my teeth. Despite my best intentions to sound oblivious, the silence between us remains intact.

"Clary," he calls me.

I raise my hands, waving off the statement he has left hanging, and smiles somehow. "Please drop it, Luke," my eyes are close, blinding me from seeing his reaction, "Just forget that I even asked." I could see the confusion in the depths of his eyes, and the sympathy he has when I lost everything I have—family, the entire Morgenstern honor, and as well as my father. It would have too easy if he didn't miss at all.

"We should go," I mutter, my voice sounding very rough, feeling the painful stutter down inside my throat, as I stand from the couch, slinging the purse over my sounders, before grazing past our table. Reaching the narrow doors, I push them open, and step down into the gray pavements of the city, breathing the polluted atmosphere.

I stop dead, midway towards the truck, and wait as he bursts from the diner. He buries his hands inside the pockets of his leather jacket, as I cross my arms over my chest, before turning back into the vehicle. He caught my elbows and pulls me back, which made me reluctantly spin around. He breathes down into my face and frowns.

"What?" I retort to him.

"You can tell me everything, Clary," he pauses, "you know that."

"No one will understand anyway, because nobody has ever been in my place." My head throbs as I speak. Anger rushes within in my blood, inside these veins and I can feel my muscles tighten as well as my jaw. I see his confused eyes, with mine, asking him to understand somehow.

"You've never even tried." I hear his protests, ringing in my ears like church bells chiming as the funeral goes on. It sounds like someone has died at that moment, and keeps my anger at its level.

"I don't even want to try." Pause. I can feel the tears burning again from the corners of my eyes, and as I speak, I try to hold them back together, keeping myself from breaking all over again, like a broken glass glued back together and probably in one movement, I could break.

He nods in response, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Can you just," I lift my head at him, facing him with my eyelids shut—refraining his gaze, "drive me to the clinic? I have my therapy today, and I don't intend to be late."

I climb over the passenger seat, taking the space for myself, and in deep silence, he starts the engine. The truck slowly drives back into the flooded streets of the entire city, forking left onto the other corner. As I lean against the seatbelt and the harsh wisp of autumn breeze touches my skin, giving a freezing wave of air on my cheeks. My hair waves off from the neck, and floats behind me as Luke maintains his speed. I put a finger over my lips and my elbow over the open window, staring outside the truck, seeing people come and go, inside the shops or walking down the street with their own businesses.

I stare back at him. He is almost the father I never had, and still wishes to have. Even now, I couldn't look straight into his eyes, seeing the concern he has for me, but the concern I could never take. Sometimes, I just wonder what life would have been if he was my father, and not an abusive one—and it hurts, but somehow, it feels great.

"Luke," I call him, and he immediately glimpses down at me as he stops the truck after the traffic light had turned red. "I'm sorry for the things I've said. I wish I could you, but it isn't easy as you think."

"I understand," he says, "but you can still trust me."

"I know." As I smile at him, the darkness that has swallowed inside my heart starts to fade away in an instant.

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><p><em>How was it? Reviews.<em>

_Thank you for those who have read this story, and I am very thankful that somehow, someone likes my story. Anyways, one has asked me if she died after the gunshot, and the answer is obviously no. He was just playing with her, you know, getting on her nerves or something._

_Don't forget the reviews._


	3. Chapter Two

_**Disclaimer:** Last thing I checked, my name is not Cassandra Clare. I wish it is, actually._

_Right. First and foremost, I apologize for delaying this chapter because writer's block is being a bitch lately and I couldn't focus momentarily due to the fact that the school year in our country is almost over. I'm off to college. Jeez. Second, I apologize in advance for the possible grammatical errors in this chapter, though it has already been checked by my editor. Third, thank you for continually reading this story again, because I never even imagined someone taking interest in this one._

_Lastly, enjoy._

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

I watch as the truck glides back into the streets, and disappears as the other vehicles cave in. Twenty-three minutes traveling down the flooded streets and driving in silence, after I stated my apologies for continually being stupid. And I turn around, grazing at several arms, before pushing myself away from the throngs of people.

Reaching the entrance, the cold autumn atmosphere brushes against my skin, flooding chills in my entire body, and I stride down the carpet where footsteps are barely audible. I arrive towards the nurses' desk, and notice a man seated in a wheelchair, who seems to be paralyzed. His irises are dark and shallow, imploding me inside a thought about how his life has been. I follow him as the nurse pushes his wheelchair down the hall, and towards the operating room.

_Others have it worse_, I thought and frown to myself. _Is my life not yet the perfect definition of the worst? I was abused because I trusted my father, beaten until I am almost lying ghastly and lifeless in my own pool of blood, shipped inside an institution where patients are treated badly, cuffed on the walls for three years with rusted metal that created bruises on my wrists and ankles. Is that not _enough_?_

I reach the stairs, taking the steps, before stopping in the empty hallways. Two female nurses stride past me, giggling about how the golden-haired boy looks gorgeous. From a very short distance, he leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and a sly smirk forming on the corner of his lips. I gaze in his eyes, as it outshines the dimmed lights, and he stares back at me.

_He looks just like my father,_I thought.

Silence waves over me. As exhaustion aches under layers of muscles, I feel tired. Not the kind of tired that I never had a decent night's sleep, but the kind that shoots through my bones and into my soul. I am tired of denying that I am fine, that everything will be alright, that my father is gone and never coming back, that my whole life has been some kind of a fictional horror movie—and that it's real.

I shrug off the thought, approaching towards the clinic, where probably my psychologist rests in her chair and scribbling notes in her yellow parchment. Her name is Tessa. I met her three weeks ago, lodged on her seat and waiting for me—enormous, dark curls gushing over her shoulders, arms wrapped in a blazer, and lips red as blood. It was those eyes that caught my attention; they are the same color of the storm clouds brewing over the entire city and threatening to rain, or the fog covering the mountaintops in an early morning. She stands tall, even without those black heels, and has an innocent smile on her lips whenever we talk or trying to make me feel better. She told me that I should trust her, or even try to do so. Yet, she knew it wouldn't be as easy like crying over a bruise. I have never trusted anyone since father started abusing me—not even my mom.

I enter the small clinic, and glance at the woman, sitting behind her desk and scrawling notes on her pad, just as I imagined. I feel her eyes lifting towards my direction. "You're early. I'm quite surprise," she says, grinning as she lands the pen on her side, with her hands clasping together. Her curls are laced behind her head, and small covered shoulders shrug as she pulls out my files from under her desk. I watch her eyelashes flicker across the rays of sunlight beaming from the glass on the side of her small clinic, defining the depths of her eyes. She moves the papers across her elbows, grazing the sleeves of her blazer on the smooth surface, before leaning forward.

I settle myself over the cushion seat in front of her desk, and notice how her small clinic seems like an old office—books standing in rows over the shelf, and certificates in frames hanging against the walls. Over her desk, documents scatter across the surface and several types of pens are standing inside the holder.

"How have you been?" It has been the first question she asks every time we meet, and I will answer the same thing. I'm good, though I already know how she thinks I'm lying. _You can trust me, Clarissa_. I hear her voice inside my head, her first words on replay like bells charmingly ringing through my ears. It would probably be the hardest thing to do, especially if you don't know whom to trust.

"Fine." Another lie. I'm falling apart, and that is definitely the best description of how I seriously feel. I can feel my muscles tearing from layer to layer and the skins off my bones, like being torn apart brick by brick. Despite of how sure I am for saying that, I hear the words replaying inside my mind, feeling the painful stutter in my voice, and as I shudder with each sound.

She nods and says, sounding unsatisfied, "I see. Are you still having nightmares?"

"Yes." My head throbs as memories gush inside my mind, feel my temple pulsating with such rhythm and pain. His figure reappears, behind my emerald irises, and the darkness caving over me.

"What were those nightmares about?"

"The usual," I say, and sounding terrified. "I was still locked inside the same cell—cuffed against the walls, and my wrists were bruised, and so were my ankles. A female nurse then came in, with a silver tray in her hands, and prepared the injection." I was shaking as each word slip out of my mouth, and I can feel the tension and fear rising inside my chest, before stating again, "I tried to fight her, but they held tight against my arms, and succeeded drugging me again. The fluid coursing through my veins had taken over my entire body, and I couldn't move. I tried but I can feel my muscles tightening with every whimper I let out, and I was just so weak." I stare into her eyes. They are filled with such emotions, and I can't read them. Tears roll from the corner of my eyes against the side of my cheeks, memories receding again behind my irises as I stare blearily at Tessa. "My father came in, and he said he'd kill me. Before I realize what happened next, everything blacked out, and there was one gunshot erupting into my ears, and I screamed." I stop, before shrugging off the thoughts. "And that's when I finally woke up."

She lowers her head, eyes gazing down into her desk, and glides her pen over the pad—silence creeping up into my spine. I glance towards the frame standing over her table, and a picture of her and a young girl in between her arms, as they smile widely with the sun beaming behind them. She had blue eyes, like those of Luke's, and darker tint of brown curls entangling over her mother's shoulders.

Her name is Sophie, and I have met her before.

"Does it hurt," she asks me. I turn my head towards her again, confused of her question. I don't know if she asks me about hurting myself with those nightmares, or about hurting myself with those memories. I watch as she leans back into her chair, her fingers intertwining with each other and her eyes focused on mine.

"Yes." I feel my chest rise and fall, heaving as minutes pass with silence flooding in again. And I hear her sigh, like hitching a breath after digging a hole for almost an hour. She lifts her head, before reaching to her side, her fingers touching the side of a book and pulls it out from the rest. I gaze as her pale hand glides over the cover, exploring the soft surface, before smiling down at me.

"Are you still on medications?" She asks immediately.

I nod in response.

"Good." A smile forms on her lips, as she writes erratically over my record, and shortly glimpsing at the calendar standing on the side of her desk. She lets out an exasperated sigh and flickers her eyelids again, with her eyelashes falling out perfectly.

"I want to see you again next week, and we will see if something has changed." Pause. "But right now, I want you to stay normal, continue your medications, and stop worrying about those nightmares." I wish I could, as I watch her hands crawl towards mine, gripping my fingers in between hers, and smiles widely, "I know you don't trust me, or anybody else—but Clary, you're a troubled person and with a very tragic childhood. And sometimes trusting can help you survive; despite of how much you hate your father." Every word sounds numb and empty. In my attempt to see her point, the chances are really slim.

I nod again; despite of how perpendicular her point is, before moving away from my seat and turn back. "I'll see you on Thursday," saying as I wave my hand to her, before leaving. I notice her smile curved upon her red lips as I walk towards the door, against the mirror on the side, before finally leaving the small clinic.

Thoughts gush inside my mind, like waterfalls cascading rapidly along the rocks and down to the bottom, and voices whispering against my ears. I wish it would be easy to trust someone, like giving your last cookie to a complete stranger. It has never been easy. Father had taught me that everyone in this horrifying reality seems to care, but somehow they still don't. And it has been what I believed in.

Someone nudged behind me, and papers fly across the deserted hall with a woman stumbling down. I circle around, as she gathers the documents back into her folder, and lean downward to help her. "Thank you," she mumbles, and I respond with a faint smile.

"It's nothing," I say, turning around to leave.

"You do know that you're going to the restricted section, right?" I abruptly stop at her question, and realize that I have been heading towards the wrong direction. She giggles behind me, and says, "Okay, I'll show you out. I don't bite hard, so no worries." I face her again, and the red shade on my cheeks rises as embarrassment strikes me, which made her smile wider. Then, I walk with her down the halls.

"I'm Isabelle, by the way," she introduces herself, tugging her folders close to her chest, as we pass down the corridors. "And I work here as my summer job, since my mother is a doctor. I organize the patients' files in here," she added, with a little hint of enthusiasm.

"So, you do know—"

She nods. "Yes, I know who you are." Pause. "You are Ms. Herondale's patient, but no, your case is somewhat confidential. Only you and she know about it." Another smile. "What's your name again?"

"Clary," I answer.

We arrive into the lobby, and face each other. I stare at her, losing in my thoughts again. Her long black hair waves as it spills behind her, and eyes even brighter than Luke's. The sides of her plain dress fit perfectly around her waist, curving her figure, and heels almost eight inches over the ground. Shrugging, she says, "I'll see you again, Clary."

I nod, before exiting the hospital without looking back.

* * *

><p>Arms graze against my shoulders. I push in between the throngs of people across the street, inhaling the fumes all over the city, and lightning roaring overhead. Storm clouds brew again, as rain threatens to pour all overNew York, soaking the streets and filling the holes with mud.<p>

I lift my wrist. It has been half an hour ago since I left the hospital, after such short appointment with my psychologist. Luke might've been too busy arranging the rows of his bookshelf in the shop, since his sister has gone out of the city just this morning. I search the streets and glance at every corner and shop on the side, which sends chills down into my backbone as the bittersweet scent of caffeine fills me in.

Then, I notice the small coffee shop on the corner, with people rushing in and out of those glass doors. The tables are occupied with customers, cups of warm coffee in between their fingers, as they chatter under the dark afternoon.

I enter the shop, smelling the stronger scent of caffeine, and stands behind the old woman with her own walking stick in hand. Her hair has turned white, hiding the thinnest strands of her brown hair in between, and her hands are wrinkled and freckled. She must have been seventy or something, on the physical appearance.

People grab their orders, and the line comes shorter. In a matter of minutes, it's the old woman's turn. I rummage through my purse, grabbing some dollars as my payment and before I notice, the man behind the counter stares at me. He moves swiftly across the space as his blond locks follows, and I meet his eyes—the same shade as the sunlight, or even brighter. He was the boy from the hallway, and the one that those nurses had talked about.

And then again, he certainly looks just like my father.

The woman leaves the counter. I step forward and lean against the marble, resting my perspired palms over the cold surface as he waits for my order. "Chocolate latte, and creamer," I say. My voice sounds raspy and hoarse with those words, as hesitation floods over me.

"Alright," he speaks, pressing the buttons on his keyboard, before scrawling words over his pad. His voice is deep, like fire has ignited inside his throat, burning the insides of his neck. I stare at his shoulders, noticing how broad they are for such a young man like him.

"You know, staring at me like that is creepier than trying to talk to me," he says, as a low chuckle elicits from his throat. Blood furiously shades through my cheeks, at his statement, and I part my lips for a possible retort, but nothing comes out. "I haven't seen you here before," he suggests. I frown at his statement, as he turns away from me, pouring the cup with a round of warm coffee from the machine.

I huff, and retorts, "I don't think that actually concerns you." As he comes back on the counter, I reach forward to my cup, but he pulls it away from me with smile forming widely across his face.

"I am not as ignorant as you think. I notice people in my own perspective," he grins. I feel myself melting at his stare, and I try to defend myself with a scowl. His golden eyes flicker against the light, outshining everything around us, as he smiles at me again. "What's your name?"

"Why do you think I should give you that information?" I ask him, sounding incredulously surprised about his approach to me.

Pfft. "Because I'm irresistible," he says. I almost choke in his reply, and I frown as confusion floods over my entire face, tinting my cheeks with red shade. I stare into the depths of his eyes, seeing the desperation to know my name, and yet confusion seeps through me.

"Prick," I retort, as he smiles.

"Nice name," he says. "I'm Jace." More like an asshole.

"And I really don't care." I narrow my eyes at him, as he has already gotten into my nerves. Pulling out a hand, I raise an eyebrow, "Now, can I have my latte, please?" He hands me the cup as I give him the payment in exchange. Our fingers cross, clasping against each other, and I freeze as he glides his skin on mine. I snatch my hand away, breaking a-way the contact. But the electricity coursing through me remains prickling against my skin. From the corner of my eyes, he twitches another smile and I feel my heart stop for a second, before turning away from the counter.

"I'll see you again, Red," he calls behind me. I scowl again, with my eyeballs rolling over, hearing the name he has given me, and immediately dashes out of the coffee shop.

* * *

><p>Ding, I hear and watch as the doors slide open, before stepping out into the empty corridors. Silence brews over me again, as I walk towards the apartment. I stare at the cream-colored walls. It reminds me of the mansion, where blood has splattered across the curtains and carpet.<p>

_You're a disgrace, and you are not my daughter._I hear his voice as it replays again inside my head. Shutting my eyes once more, images starts flashing behind my eyelids—his scarred face and his uncomfortable habit of lashing out on almost everything.

I arrive into the apartment and rip my coat from my shoulders, before throwing it over the stand. The atmosphere is cold and damp, as it touches my bare skin, and I walk towards the window. Autumn breeze wisps on my face, waving the curls behind me, and drying the beads of sweat against my neck.

Thoughts gush again inside my head, along with the blood furiously coursing through my veins. I feel my heart thump inside my chest, as I stay silently in front of the window. A father should always protect his daughter from anything that would have harmed her—but he never did. Insanity drove him mad, and probably his obsession with alcohol. Mother never knew about how long it has been since he started abusing me, and telling her would rather make it worse.

I spin around at the voice, who had spoken behind me. Lifting my hand to my chest, I feel the pang heavily pulls my weight down to the ground as my heart drums against layers of muscles.

"Mom," I breathe in. "You scared me."

A smile forms on her lips, taking the towel in between her fingers, and shoves it back into the pockets of her apron. She seems exhausted, as I stare at her longer. She nods and says, "I made some brownies." I watch her point behind, gazing at the trays lying across the counter, and feel the corner of my lips twitch into a small smile.

"I'll probably have them later," I say.

She nods in agreement, turning as she makes her way back into the kitchen. I enter my room and lock the door behind me, before pressing my head against the wooden carvings. I remember myself over the field, and dancing as the music inside my head continues playing endlessly. It was my twelfth birthday, and the last time I had eaten a brownie. I can't remember how he ruined that day—but I somehow felt the miseries in my chest as memories come flashing again.

He slapped me, and words were thrown over, as I tried not to listen and feel his horrible breath brewing against my face, spluttering out his words in random. I feel a tear roll against my cheeks and I lift hand to wipe it away. Mom is all that I have left, and I am still uncertain about trusting her, despite of the sacrifices she had done.

I pull out the shirt from myself, throwing it across the laundry basket, and stare at the scars all over my skin—the cuts that have healed, along with the three long scratches on my arms. I break my eyes from the mirror, as tears roll down against the side of my face, before grabbing a long-sleeved shirt from my closet. I throw it over my head and pull it down into my body, as I smoothens the fabric.

I settle over the bed, with the mattress sinking under, and drop myself against the soft pillows behind me. My eyelids shut, as dreams start moving behind them, and everything fades away.

* * *

><p><em>He was reeked with alcohol once he stood on the doorway, and I found myself curled in the corner, scrawny arms wrapped around my buckling knees. I hadn't moved after the split second I heard his footsteps arriving closer, and he strode firmly on the dimmed hallways.<em>

_Shattered empty bottles of vodka scattered across the carpet, lying motionless, and he stepped on it—the brittleness of each piece piercing through my ears. I was undoubtedly scared, staining tears from my eyes, and pleading him to stop._

_He was still the man I had known since. Incorrigible, and fierce. I gazed on his black eyes, seeing nothing except his wrath. He had stepped closer, and closer, until our faces were merely inches apart. His breath brewed against my cheeks, and I choked once after inhaling his horrible scent. He was drowned with whiskey, and I couldn't move myself away from him. His fingers lifted and damped against my dainty cheeks, which made me shiver even more._

_"Where is your mother, huh, Clarissa?" _

_His breath pushed me on the urge of vomiting. One second, I was settled on the corner, and next, I was on the ground—cheeks bruised with his large hand hitting my skin. I whimpered in pain, tasting one drop of blood from the corner of my swollen lips, and he leaned closer to me, breathing against my thin arms._

_I shivered. He was merely apart from me. I was too young—for anything tormenting as this, and too young to die. His fingers caught a handful of my curls, and threw me across the shattered glasses. Some pieces dug in my flesh, and some made cuts through me. I screamed in pain, and he roared in laughter._

_We were thousands apart from that father-daughter relationship everyone would have wanted. He had spent his days through his alcoholic obsession, and lashing on insane things. Mother would have left him before, but I never understood why she didn't. It was painful for her to watch me either choke in tears, or choke in his hands._

_There was blood across my forehead, and a piece of shattered glass in my arm. I winced, trying to pull it out and gazed at him. He had settled against the wall, pouring too much whiskey down on his throat. _

_He lifted his own hand, and everything suddenly blacked out._

_There was no pain—except endless fears. I was motionless, eyelids torn, and lips parted—ghastly lying on the ground where my own blood was spilled. He had thrown his hand across his face, and everything seemed fast that I realized I was almost dead. I was merely breathing, and tears stained from the corner of my eyes, recalling the moments I used to call as my father._

* * *

><p>I bolt upright from the mattress, hands falling behind me and eyes open wide as fear strikes through me. I feel the sharp pang in my chest as my memories recede again, like a broken record.<p>

As I rapidly breathe out, beads of sweat drip over my entire skin, as though fire has ignited underneath. My heart thumps beneath the muscles of my chest, and I hear it ringing inside my ears with rhythm.

8:00 pm. I cast the covers away, shoving it aside, and reaching near to the pills resting over the bedside desk. Throwing two pills inside my mouth, I swallow it along with the water pouring out from the glass.

"Clary?" I hear her voice behind the door, and her sheer silhouette moving slowly against the light. "Are you alright?" She asks. I know she heard me frantically waking up, and how she stays up all night to make sure I'm not dreaming another nightmare.

"Yes," I say, feeling my voice stutter as I struggle with every word and she remains behind the door, "I just thought I saw something, but it's nothing." I let out a silent laugh, and form a faint smile.

Silence distances between us. I wait for her response, before sinking back into the mattress, and my curls scattering all over the pillow. I gaze at the empty ceiling.

"Good night, Clary." I hear her again, watching her leave.

Warm tears slip down to my cheeks. "I'm sorry, Mom," I mumble to myself, before allowing the darkness to consume me again.

* * *

><p><strong>How was it? Reviews please.<strong>


	4. Chapter Three

_**Disclaimer:** Last thing I checked, my name is not Cassandra Clare. I wish it is, actually._

_I apologize for so many reasons. First, I apologize for delaying this chapter because my schedule had been quite a bitch lately, and second, for the** grammatical errors** on this since this wasn't edited because my editor is temporarily unavailable. Third, I apologize again because this is the shortest chapter I've done. Lastly, I apologize for being such a creep in making this chapter. It's really awkward. Anyhow, thank you for those who left their wonderful reviews because it's really a massive boost of confidence for me. And I had experience a great struggle over this chapter. _

_However, enjoy the rest of the events._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

I settle myself underwater, and head over, as the water waves in silence against my chest. My head rests on the edge of the tub, and bubbles appearing in between each strand of my hair.

I shift my face towards the left and gaze at the empty portion of the bathroom, where the small lavatory stands under the slightly rusted mirror and on the other side is the toilet bowl.

It has been almost half an hour since I left reality behind the bathroom door, as though entering an empty dimension. My eyelids flutter shut and darkness swallowing the entire light, as I feel my temple throbbing again. I feel lightheaded—my sight circling across the ceiling.

Images course through my irises like water, and roughly as it flows, with memories mixing into them. In another second, I'm standing over a fragile glass and white spots piercing through the darkness. I move an inch and the smooth vulnerable glass underneath my bare feet cracks, like being shot. And his laughter rises from the silence, which made me whimper in such mixture of emotions—fear and anger.

"Weak," he whispers in my ear. I feel goosebumps and my stomach wringing as I feel his presence closer against my skin. I hear his laugh again, even more horrifying, and another word, "You have always been weak, Clarissa, and you never deserve my name. I didn't even know how you were alive in the first place. Did you know that I tried to drown you into the bathtub when you were just three years old? I bet your mother never told you that, nor did she want you to know. No matter how much you wish things to turn out differently, the past will remain the same, Clarissa. You can never change it."

I feel warm tears sting through my eyes, falling as I feel the water rush into the lungs and I couldn't breathe. My chest tightens again, and my stomach churns as the memory of myself drowning into the bathtub filled with water. I choke out a soft sob.

"That's the reason why the past needs to be forgotten," I snort. A gunshot erupts, and I feel the sharp pain on my chest, like ripping out my own lungs. I raise my hand and see the blood smeared on my fingers through the dim light, before falling from the glass—as it breaks and I feel myself dropping a thousand miles under, like swirling down into a cosmic phenomenon, out of nowhere.

I rise from the water, gasping as my chest contracts with pain, and I glance across the bathroom. I stare down at my chest, and sighing in relief when it all appears to be another nightmare. I grab the towel, wrapping it around myself, and stepping out of the bathtub.

The atmosphere inside my room feels cold, like freezing cold. I arrive in front of the closet, pushing the doors sideways and staring at the clothes lined over the rack. I pull out the olive sweatshirt, and a pair of white shorts, before putting it on myself.

I grab my soaked hair, wrapping it around into a messy bun, glide the lip-gloss over my dried lips, and nibble it again. I stare at my reflection again and the imperfections carve into my irises as I think of it over again. I hear three loud knocks, followed by a smooth voice as it floats under the door as she calls my name.

"Clary," she asks. I walk closer and glance as her sheer silhouette moves against the sunlight entering from the windows. I fling the door open, and she stands there, dressed in her formal office clothes, with her lips parted as though her statement interrupted.

"Hey. I thought you've already left for work," I greet, walking back towards the unmade bed and sit in silence—hands resting on the covers and head crooking on the side.

She leans her arm on the frame of the door, and braces herself with her hands, before lifting one and rubs her bleary eyes. I face the mirror and gaze at my scrawny reflection. She shrugs; lifting her shoulders in such swift motion, and opens her mouth to speak.

"I just want to check up on you, see if you're awake," she says.

"Right," I told her softly and nod. "I thought maybe I could visit the bookstore later, and see if I could grab the books for school. Would that be a good idea?" I ask, pressing my lips together as I patiently wait for her answer.

A smile suddenly appears on her face, and she nods.

We both remain in silence for one second and I look at her face against the sunlight, fair and light in complexion—her green eyes lifting towards mine. She braces her arms and walks to me, landing a soft kiss on my forehead—before pressing her cold palm over my cheek. "I need to go, sweetie, and call me if you need anything." I nod again, before she disappears into the hallway, and all the silence hovers once more, like a blanket covering a child's cold form and nothing else.

I still feel her cold hand laying on my cheeks and the smile twitching on both corners of her red lips, as her soft kiss lands on my forehead before she left. I may not trust her yet, but perhaps someday, I will—because she is all that I have in this miserable reality.

* * *

><p>The cab stops dead close to cracked pavements. I hand out my payment to the driver, before stepping out of the vehicle and slinging the bag on my shoulders. I watch the cab push back into the streets, vanishing with the other vehicles running down onNew York City.<p>

Dark clouds brew over, covering almost the entire place, as it threatens to pour down in a minute or two. A lightning has roared probably while I was still inside the cab and on my way to the store. The wind is cold, waving and harshly brushing against me—my curls flying away in such swift movement.

I stare at the bookshop. _Garroway books_, says the name board. I've been here before, and nothing much has changed. The parkway remains empty, except that Luke's truck rests on the side, and the shade of green over the walls are unfading—or maybe he had it all repainted. The sign says that the shop is already closed, but Luke must have been expecting me to visit anyways. I feel the wringing of my intestines, as though I am about to throw up, since I'm not really good at being normal.

I breathe out an exasperated sigh.

Upon entering through the doors, the cold atmosphere brushes on my skin. Electric goosebumps, I feel it. And a familiar jolt of anxiety inside my spine—like prickling my muscles with sharp needles. The smell of books floats across the air, and I gaze over the counter, which stays empty. Shelves are built out of mahogany, shaded with brownish tint, as the books are rowed in each shelf. I recall the carpet lying underneath my beat-up sneakers—the same carpet Mom had brought from California after her third international art gallery, and she had given to Luke as her gratitude for helping us both.

I spin around, seeing someone standing right behind me. He wore thick-rimmed eyeglasses and a black 'New York' shirt, with a large box around his arms. "I'm afraid we're already close, miss," he says. I curve a small smile, before nodding my head.

"Well, I'm actually here to see—"

"Simon?" Luke. I turn around again, seeing him walk from the corner, and his mouth parts in such surprise. I catch his eyes. "Clary," he breathes out of relief. As my name rolls on his tongue, the hint of astonishment is clearly audible. "I didn't expect you would come by and visit," he tells me. I smile again, eyeing the boy behind me, who seems to be confused.

I shrug, before approaching closer. "Mom thought it'd be a better idea to visit the bookshop and grab the books needed tomorrow, rather than lock myself inside the apartment again. Plus, I'm completely bored out of my life in that place." He curves his smile, the usual grin as I say those words. I watch the boy walk past me and as he lands the box over the rest of the boxes behind Luke, and smile.

"Is there anymore from the truck?" Luke asks softly. His smile disappears as the boy turns to him with an uncertain gaze, causing Luke to flinch. "Okay," he says, clapping his sweaty hands dry, "How about you take Clary to the shelves and help her grab the books she needs for tomorrow?" I try to protest, but I am speechless over the silence. The boy nods his head in response, gesturing me to follow him.

He has brown eyes. I notice them, almost transparent over the dim light covering the entire room. Silence breaks through between us, as I still follow him towards the shelves, and I lower my head. He suddenly spoke, "I never knew Jocelyn had a daughter—not that I've met you before. And you really look like your mother; red hair, green eyes."

A close smile forms on my lips, each corner twitching, and I could feel my chest contract with anxiety. "That's what I'm always told," I say and nod my head at the same time, before pressing my lips together. He stops again, reading the label on the side of the shelf and turning left, as I follow him still.

"Here we are," he says, pointing the books on the row, "These are the books usually used in schools." I watch him talk without turning to me, and reach out for specific subjects. "Physics, trigonometry, biology, calculus, history, and others—all those are here on this shelf." He taps his hand on the surface, and curves another smile.

I look upwards, with eyes searching for books. I feel his brown eyes watching me close as I scan through every item. "Do you need help with choosing your books," he asks. I face him in confusion, and nod since I clearly have no idea what subject to grab. His smile spreads on his face, and speaks, "If you're studying at St. Xavier's, you're going to need biology, calculus, history, and geography." I nod again. He grabs the books from each row, searching for the others, and lifting it over his arms.

"Thanks," I mumble and he shoots me another grin on his face, almost swallowing the entire light, before walking out on another corner and I follow him again. "You're Simon, right?" I ask, pointing a finger at him, and the unusual feeling of being normal creeping up inside me.

"That's my name," he replies without looking.

Before I could speak again, Luke appears behind me and places his hand over my shoulder—forced a close smile on his face. "Did you get all the books you need for school?" He asks, and I immediately nod, before turning to Simon, who seems busy organizing the books. "Jocelyn just called, asking if I could drive you back home since it's pouring hard outside—but unfortunately, I can't. There's this really important errand I need to run, and that I couldn't dare miss," he spoke with sympathy.

"I can drive her home," Simon suddenly says as he lifts his head up, turning to us and hesitation in the depth of his brown eyes. "I mean, the gig won't start until nine, so I think I have the time to drive her home before heading to the bar—if that's okay with you, Luke."

Luke rubs his bleary eyes, with one finger from the left hand, and I feel the blood rush through my skin before smiling. "Of course, Simon, if you're willing to—and thank you." Simon nods in response, smirking as he shakes his head in disbelief. I watch as Luke walks away and back into the sixth shelf, and I face Simon, seeing the wide smile spreading across his face. He leans against the counter and focuses his eyes on me. I feel myself melting at his stare, and look away.

"Gig, huh?" I ask randomly with my eyes narrowing in confusion. He tilts his head towards me again, nibbling his lip as he walks behind the counter, and scans the books. "Does that simply mean that you are a musician, or something?"

He nods. "Yes. I'm playing in a band—crappy band, actually," he laughs. I feel my lips twitch into another smile, before shaking my head. It has been long since I had laughed or chatted with someone and have a nice time with them—far too long to remember.

"What instrument do you play?"

"Bass and part-time drums," he replies.

"I'd like to watch you play tonight—see if you're band sounds bad or something." My voice sounds like smiling and I realize that I am. He shakes his head in disagreement.

"Trust me, it's really bad that you won't wish to come back again." I almost laughed when he said those words and he smiles at me, despite of how serious he sounds.

"I still like to watch you play; despite of how crappy it sounds, and perhaps enjoy the rest of the summer night before it ends. I have never watched anything like this before," I say.

He nods in agreement, and I look behind me as Luke approaches with his eyebrows scrunching. As he walks towards the exit, I run after him and call his name loud enough for him to turn around. He seems bothered and I've never seen him like this before—worried.

"Are you leaving now?" I ask him, and he nods his head, before his smile appears on his lips. He pulls out his hand from one of his pockets and brushes the dangling curl back behind my ear. I feel the jolt of connection between us, and he widens his smile.

"I need to leave now. Take care, Clare," he says, landing a soft kiss on my cheeks and darts his eyes past me—towards Simon. "Drive safe, Simon, and good luck on your gig. Don't stay out too late at night," he warns, with the hint of cautiousness, before turning away.

As he opens the door, I say, "Thank you, Luke." He smirks, before leaving the shop and I stand there alone.

* * *

><p>Simon turns the steering wheel towards the right, and I watch him drive down in between the vehicles across the road. It has been quiet since we left the shop, and I remain still. Music floats across the space between us, as he turns up the volume higher—and it sounds hard rock.<p>

My elbow sits over the window, with the cold night wind brushing against my faint cheeks, as though peeling the skin off as he drives faster. The golden lights almost blind me when we pass through several shops, scheming on the streets, and I turn back to him again.

I notice his eyes on me before he could turn his sight back on the road, and a soft chuckle escapes my throat. "What," I hear him ask, and I shake my head in response. My lips curve into another close smile and for the first time, it isn't forced. He smiles at me, wider than mine was, before tapping his fingers on the wheel and singing along the music.

I laugh, as his voice collides with the music.

"_All we got is what's left to take, hearts so pure in it's broken place, 'cause we are, we are, we are…_" His head tilts on the side, as I listen to his voice with the music going on along us. The vehicle pushes back into the streets after the traffic light turns green and he continues singing along. "_I walk the tightrope, you're my way home, you're my backbone, you'll always be here right beside me…_"

He stops dead on the side, turning off the motor, and I remove my seatbelt from its lock. Craning my head to him, I catch him staring and he steps out of the van, before I could say anything. I push the door out and jump from the passenger seat, with Simon waiting on the side and hands buried on his pockets. I slam the door back in.

"Are you sure you want to watch us play? Because, I assure you that my band is worse than anything you have listened to." He brushes his fingers over his dark hair, strands breaking out from the spaces between his hands. The smile that had faded reappears again, brighter among the lights around the lot, and I nod my head.

He pulls the door open, holding it out as I step inside, and the cold air disappearing with the warm atmosphere mixing in. Throngs of people flood the entire room and almost all the tables are occupied, as music plays louder than the screams and cheers. Simon leads me toward the empty table, and takes the other seat with me, with his hands resting on the surface. I shift my head across the place as the multicolor-light dances across the floor with the crowd getting thicker.

"Would you like some coffee or orange juice," he asks me. I glance at him again and my eyelids blinking against the light.

"Uh, coffee," I say.

"Okay. I'll be right back." He moves from his seat and walks to the counter. I watch him speak to the waitress, pointing to my direction before running up to the stage and waving at me. I glance over the stage, seeing another boy with black hair, leaning close to the microphone.

"Oh, hey. I'm Eric—and we are going to play our song tonight. I hope everyone enjoys," the boy says with eyes scanning over the crowd. Simon settles himself on the side, and his guitar in between his hands as it swings over his shoulder. The music plays. I watch as he cranes his head on the side, rocking along the melody from his instrument. Voices of excitement are heard as the music goes on—with Simon still staring at me with a wide smile on his lips. His fingers strum the strings of his guitar, mouthing words along the tune, and I smile at him.

In another moment or so, the waitress from behind the counter appears with a large circular tray of coffee in her hand. She had an apron wrapped around her tiny waist, and her blond hair laced up into a messy bun—a smile forming on her lips as she lays the coffee mug before me and the small packs of creamers.

"Black coffee, as requested," she says. I nod in response, tilting my head back towards the stage, as the band continues to play—that I did not notice the woman leave. The noise made by the crowd has already gotten louder and I could barely hear my own voice across the room.

"Hey," a voice squeals, and loud enough for me to hear.

Someone stands behind me. I circle around, seeing her with a smile crept on her face and those eyes sparkling against the multicolor-lights dancing across the floor. Her white dress flows just above her knees and matched with a pair of leather boots, with her black hair cascading over her bare shoulders.

Isabelle—the girl from the hospital.

"Jeez. I really suck at remembering names," she groans at herself. I notice the confusion in the depths of her eyes as she struggles over my name again and my pale lips suddenly twitch into a small smile, before saying my name over the noise exploding in our ears. She sighs in relief and settles herself on the empty seat beside me, propping her elbows over the surface. I notice how deep her dimples are as her smile widens in excitement—watching over the stage.

Isabelle raises her hand up, and the waitress comes right back at the table. "Two lemonade glasses please," she says, gesturing her fingers. I taste the bitterness melting on my tongue as I take my first sip from the cup and with the music, I crane my head left—as Simon stumps his feet into the ground and along the tune. I face her again, seeing her long eyelashes flickering like feather.

"What are you doing here," she asks loudly, as though screaming at me through the music.

"I'm actually here with a friend, and he's on the stage," I answer.

"Really?" I read the excitement trembling in her voice as she shouts over the loud noise, made by the music and the crowd. I nod again, and I point on the stage—towards Simon. His eyes are close and lips parted in ecstasy as he plays with the band. I smile again.

"Simon?" She sounds furious, and I nod. Looking back at the stage, the music has finished and he removes the guitar from his shoulders before jumping off surface. "You're friends with Simon?" I hear her voice again, louder across the quieter dimension. Isabelle's smile melts away, leaning back on her seat, arms crossed over her chest and fingers brushing her black hair.

"Yes," I say. "Is something wrong with that?"

"We both have issues, Clary—since our relationship ended. It has been really long, and I even doubt he still remembers me." I nod again, surprised. As Simon appears from the crowd, he runs into my table and his smile wider than I've seen before.

"You're really good. I've never hear anyone play like that before," I mutter the words out, following a laugh out my throat. He shrugs as his eyes focus on Isabelle. Brown irises met her blue ones, like a current of electricity and I feel myself drowning in between their stare.

"Isabelle," he breathes out.

Isabelle smiles, and states, "That's a great song you played. Who wrote it?" I watch the waitress come back with the two glasses of lemonade over her tray and set it on the table.

"I did," he says silently. As he takes his seat, he leans on the table, and closer to Isabelle. "Where are the boys?" His lips press together, as though forming a forced smile.

A voice shouts from behind, loud and clear, and we all look behind Simon. "You're looking for me, dork face? I'm just right here." His arm leaning against the post, with an arrogant smile that reflects his eyes, as he walks towards our table and nudges at Simon, with his golden irises scanning over us. I part my lips in surprise and blink with confusion. Suddenly, our eyes meet, colliding into a swirling phenomenon, and I feel myself swallow down the words I need to say.

"I told you I'd see you again, Red," he smirks at me.

Oh, what the hell.

* * *

><p><strong>How was it? Reviews please.<strong>


	5. Chapter Four

_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, but the plot itself. I am not affiliated to Cassandra Clare or her publishers._

_School year is finally over. Which simply means? I can update this story faster because I'll find more time to write. I'm quite excited and I hope you all are._

_I apologize for two reasons. First, I apologize because this chapter is extremely short. I didn't know what to write anymore, so I decided to finish this off and move on to the next. But, this I solemnly swear, I will make it much longer next time. Second, for the possible grammatical errors in this chapter, though it's already been checked. I suck at that._

_And thank you for the readers who reviewed/commented on the last chapter. Little did I notice, three of those who left their reviews are one of the great writers in this site. I screamed at that, and sorry for being such a creep right now._

_However, enjoy the rest of the events._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

"Wait, you two know each other?"

Isabelle's voice rings inside my ears like an alarm clock, immediately breaking my thoughts and I face her with confusion. I feel the mixture of emotions spinning into my head as though falling into a distant world of insanity and I meet her eyes with surprise and questions. I turn to Simon, who shakes his head in disbelief, and my tongue twists as I find myself tactless and speechless over the silence.

Breathing out slowly, I hear a word slip out my mouth suddenly, as my thoughts about lying again crashes through me. "No—"

He interrupted, cutting me out of my statement, and I face him in surprise. "Actually, Isabelle, we do." Pulling the other chair from under the table, he settles himself beside me and I feel myself uncomfortably sitting with his arm resting on my chair. I shift on the other side, giving him a hint of my thoughts about him—how much I loath his insolent attitude and witty comebacks.

"But, how?" Isabelle asks, leaning close to him.

"I was an angel falling out of the sky and she found me, isn't that right, love?" He smirks cunningly, and his golden eyes shining brightly over the multi-color lights swimming over the bar.

"Shut up, Jace." A smile forms on my lips, hearing Isabelle sneer at him, yet the grin on his face widens. I tilt my head towards her and take a slow glance at Simon, as he leans on his chair with hands resting behind his head and a questioning gaze at me and with questioning gaze at me.

"You asked me—"

"I was asking her, Jace. Don't be stupid."

"Okay." I drop my hands over the table, and as they face, I feel myself relax again after the argument between them. "I stopped by the café yesterday, and he was working there. I was really close to smacking his face right at that moment, but there were too many customers."

Simon remains silent on his seat, glancing across the space between us, and his eyes now focused on mine. Isabelle leans back, saying, "You should have done it, Clary."

I feel a small smile curve on my lips again.

"Clary, is it? Cute name," he says. I roll my eyes at him with disbelief and annoyance, and his shallow voice replaying inside my mind like a broken record.

"Actually, it's Clarissa. For those that I dislike," I snort.

Jace leans close to me, and I turn to Isabelle as she watches in confusion. He shakes his head in disapproval of my previous statement, and I huff before he says, "You don't really dislike me. I mean, nobody can, since everyone likes me—right, Simon?"

I face him, and Simon breathes out in forced agreement.

"Maybe you're right about that," I say, as he forms a toothy grin again, showing the victory growing inside him. "I don't dislike you—I _hate_ you." From the corner of my eyes, I notice Isabelle smile widely at me, and the hint of gratitude deep in her irises. Simon whistles from his seat as his head turns to the other corners of the bar.

He seems annoyed now, that I've overthrown his massive ego. Jace grabs the drink from Simon's hand and pours the remaining lemonade down to throat. I feel his elbows prop against mine, and his face merely centimeters apart from me—his breath damping on my cheeks, and the heat rising through each layer of muscles under my skin.

"You're the only person who happens to hate me," he smiles, cunningly—breaking his lips into a teasing smirk, and urging me to punch him right there. And I almost did.

"I'm glad." I snort, "since no one can stand your insolent attitude."

Isabelle mutters from behind me, "Second that," as she finishes her drink and landing the glass back at the table. His eyes dart on mine, staring at me deeply and exploring the depths of my emerald irises. He did not seem to care about what Isabelle mumbled, but I feel him lean closer, his breath on my face—

"Okay. I think it's time to leave, Clary." Simon rises from his seat, and I pull away from my thoughts. Rising from my own chair, I reach for the coat resting behind me, and turn towards Simon. I send him a relieving sigh and push back the chair.

"It's really nice to meet you again, and I will see you soon," Isabelle says from behind. I spin around and smile back at her, before nodding my head, and notice Jace relaxing on his seat. His arms are crossed, with his eyes still focused. "I'll see you soon, Clarissa." My name rolls in his tongue. I feel myself melting the way he had pronounced it, or drowning into another world filled with cosmic proportions.

"I'd rather hope not. It'd be disastrous in my state." His smile widens, much more teasing. I turn around again, seeing Simon as he waits by the door and holds it open for me. I step out into the cold, tugging the coat I had borrowed from him before leaving the shop.

Simon follows me from behind, and he grabs my elbow. "What the hell was that?" He asks, and I frown in confusion. "You've met Jace and you hate him—that's really new, or probably the biggest headline of the year. No one can actually hate him."

I lean back and part my mouth in surprise.

"Isabelle hates him, and you do," I shrug away and ignore him, but he pulls my elbow back.

"No. I may _dislike_ Jace, but we still get along. And Isabelle cannot hate him the way that you do."

"Why?" I ask.

"Because they're siblings." I blink in too much confusion and astonishment, as Simon opens the car door for me. I hesitate on hopping in or questioning more over the fact that Isabelle and Jace are siblings.

"Aren't you getting in?" Simon asks.

"They're siblings." I repeat the words over the silence between us and the noise from the other vehicles running on the streets, as he runs on the driver's side, and I hail over the empty seat, slamming the door back inside with him. "But, that is really impossible, Simon. They have nothing in common—not even on the features."

He pushes the key into the ignition, starting the engine, before driving out of the parking space. "Jace is adopted, or so everyone says. He has been living with the Lightwoods for almost his entire life, and Isabelle and Alec knows him better than anyone here inNew York."

"Wait, who is Alec?" I ask out of more confusion.

"Isabelle's brother. He's already starting in college, and obviously gay. Others say that he had been dating some sparkly entrepreneur for the past two years, I suppose. " Simon answers, and I nod again, devouring the overwhelming thoughts coursing through my mind for a short moment.

"Is Jace always like that, extremely insolent and obnoxious?"

"That's his charm kicking in," Simon says.

I huff in disbelief. "Charm, you say?"

"It works for most girls, Clary, and he didn't lie to you. He never really does. Girls lined behind him since high school started and all they have to do is finish his homework for the day or the _least_, beg."

"Well, it's not working for me," I say and I'm sure. He didn't reply at that, and he focuses his attention on the road. "Is there anything else that I should know or avoid about him?" The question sounds stupid, but he smiles again, shaking his head and managing the steering wheel.

"There's too much to know about him," he says and the rest of the ride is silent. I stare at the lights outside, and drown myself over many random thoughts, and the silence lies on our ears.

* * *

><p><em>I slowly flutter my eyelids, blinking as the light flickers, and I crane my head sideways—with the rusted manacles clattering against my wrists. I feel the tight squeeze inside my chest, and fear growing wildly.<em>

None of this is happening,_ I thought with eyes shut._

_Anyhow, I know that there is a high probability of coming back in this shallow space and this time I couldn't escape again. I smell the dirt close to me, and his loud footsteps arriving in the midst of the darkness with blood boiling as rage rushing through him._

_"I knew you'd find your way back here," he says. I feel him breathe on my cheeks as he presses a cold thing against my forehead and I allow a soft and scared whimper out of my throat. "Why do always claim that I am haunting you, huh, Clarissa?" The cold thing lowers on my throat and I suddenly realize it is his knife—the one he used to cut my arms as his punishment for disobeying his ridiculous orders._

_Swallowing, he points the tip against my throat before lowering the knife on my collarbone and gliding the sharp edge against my skin. He roars into deep laughter as I let out a growl, followed by a sharp hiss. At that moment, I knew he would kill me—for so many attempts in doing so, and I hear his voice again._

_He growls, in rage and excitement, seeing me in such pain._

_"I never haunted you, Clarissa." He draws his face closer to mine as his eyes fades to black—like an empty hole. "You haunted yourself, my dear daughter. I was only guiding you, and I know you miss this place." My lips curl out of fear, shaking as the glint on his smile brightens. The smell of blood gathers closer and the blade cutting deeper on my collarbone. I scream when he drives the knife inside my chest, and I drop out into another falling dimension—as though withering away._

* * *

><p>"No," I straighten from my seat and realize that I have been sleeping in Simon's passenger seat as the traffic tightens. His head leans on his fingers as his elbow rests on the window, looking ahead the traffic.<p>

Brown eyes. I meet them again, as they glance at me with such swift movement, and he moves comfortably on his seat. "Hey," he greets, still staring at me. I nod at him, before looking far inside the traffic.

"Did I wake you?"

I face him with confusion and I shake my head slowly, as he sighs in exasperation. The fear remains growing inside me as the images of the nightmare appear again in a flicker. "The traffic has gotten heavier. I hear a vehicle broke down, not far enough from here—so I think we'll be stuck here quite longer," he explains with a smile flashing again. He didn't seem to notice about the nightmare, and my voice shaking.

"Are you alright? You look really peaky." I heard him ask, and I open my lips to answer, but no words come out—and I manage a nod again. I know he wasn't satisfied, but somehow, he had accepted it. A question remains inside my head that I couldn't answer.

How far am I going to run away?

* * *

><p>The vehicle slows down towards the cracked pavements, as I remove the seatbelt from the lock. I turn to him, and he seems relaxed on his seat, breathing the cold air from his open windows. His dark hair tangles on his eyes, covering much of his sight, and I form a small smile.<p>

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow," he suddenly breaks the silence, like shattering a glass. I glance down at his mouth, watching the curve forms on his lips, before lifting my eyes towards his dark eyes.

I nod at him.

"Thanks for the ride, Simon." I step out of the van, before shutting the door back in, and pushing the strands of hair behind my ear. I bury my hands in my coat's pockets, as the cold consumes the heat from my entire body and I feel it stinging through my palms.

"You know," he says, leaning close to the passenger's side window, and I spin as he speaks again. "I've never talked to Isabelle before, since we both—you know." He trails off, knowing the pain that would have struck him if he says the exact word. I walk back towards the van, propping my arms over the door and smiles with sympathy.

"Broke up?"

"Yeah, that," he nods. "It's never been easy, but it's rather different and strange for the both of us, so we have decided that it's better if we leave the things like that."

I nod again, and we're both smiling without reasons. "I think your mom's still awake—the lights are on." Turning back to the apartment, I notice the lampshade from the living room flicker. I face him again, and he forced a smile on his face, before shifting back into the driver's seat.

"Er, I should go now." I walk backwards, burying my fists deeper in my pockets, before turning to the front door. "Drive safe," I remind him, earning a low chuckle from his throat.

"Sleep well, Clare."

Another smile flashes on my lips, after hearing the name he had given me, and it feels real—like I have nothing to worry anymore. I watch the van glide back into the streets as I take the steps towards the front door and push the key inside the knob. The warm air inside the apartment replaces the cold breeze from the outside, and I remove the coat I had been wearing, suddenly recalling that this was Simon's—hanging it over the stand, with my shoes on the side.

I feel my chest pound that I'm sure I heard it thump into another beat and the warmth of jolt running through my spine saying something has changed in me—the fear residing underneath this skin washes away as I remember the moments that had happened half an hour ago. It was magical, and I couldn't recall the last time that I had talked to someone the way that I had talked to Simon and Isabelle—telling someone's life story. And suddenly, a sharp pain hits my chest like the bullet burying deep inside as the thoughts about lying to them crashes in. It would be for myself—to protect myself from everything that I had feared for my entire life and if I started to tell one, twisting my story into another, I know that I wouldn't be able to stop it anymore.

I stride inside the living room and she settles on the couch, with a pad over her hands. Her red curls entangling into a lace and eyeglasses hanging over the bridge of her nose, she tilts her head back. "You are home," she says silently, dropping the pad on the coffee table, and crosses her arms. I notice the questioning look in her eyes and walk towards the desk, avoiding her gaze. Turning my head, I glance at the clock and realize that it's almost eleven, before turning myself behind the counter. I pour myself another cup of coffee and take a short sip.

She takes the envelope from her lap, tearing the seal off, and opens the bill—before calculating again. "Did Simon drive you home?" I snap my head towards her and nod in response, drowning again into the bittersweet taste of the drink. "I'm really glad that you're exploring now," she suddenly says and I feel like hitting myself against the wall.

"I try to." My voice seems inaudible, but I know that she heard it somehow—despite of how gloomy it sounds. Her sight focuses on the bills and I drop the empty cup down into the sink, before running the water on my bare hands.

I stare at her and I feel my throat drying as the distance between us grows larger, but I also know that I will never understand her entirely. And I could sense the strange feeling of being around her—knowing that it'll never be the same. I _was_ certain that someday I might trust her again, but now, the doubt creeps through me like an acid pouring over my muscles and all I feel is pain—from the memories flashing through my irises over again as I look longer at her and the tormenting screams from the institution made by the other patients.

Taking the coat from the stand, I walk towards my bedroom and I feel her eyes behind me, watching me ignore her again. A moment barely passed by, just a split second, and I hear her voice call behind me.

"Clary," she says. "I understand that everything has been rough for you, but you don't have to carry the weight." I face her again and meet her eyes. I do not know what to believe anymore, nor which side should I take, or whom should I trust—because there's not really a choice. It's always been about depending on only yourself.

People leave.

Things change.

"I'm fine. I can handle myself," I sound reassuring, but I know that it was another lie. The darkness swallows my eyes and I push the tears back from falling down. I cannot show how weak I am—not in front of her. My vision clouds as the tears threaten to pour down in another second, and my heart stops for a moment when silence takes place.

"Good night, Clary," she says and nods. I enter my bedroom without saying another word, shutting the door behind me with the anxiety rising through me. I melt down against the door, leaning my head back, and I let it consume me—entirely.

Tears fall.

* * *

><p><strong>How was it? Reviews please.<strong>


	6. Chapter Five

_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, but the plot itself. I am not affiliated to Cassandra Clare or her publishers._

_Again. My apologies for the possible and obvious, existent, errors in this chapter._

_But, I hope you enjoy the rest of it._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

I open my heavy eyelids, as the clock breaks the quietness lurking inside my bedroom since last night, and throw my hand behind to shut it off. Perspiration trails on my bare skin—with the feeling of anxiety crashing over me, like a wave dying in the shores.

Casting the sheets away, I shift on the other side and blink my eyes over the sunlight, realizing that I hadn't had nightmares—_for the first time_. I lay my head on the pillow, staring as the sunlight breaks through the slits of my curtains and letting the silence to creep up again.

I hear the phone ring, with my eyes searching for it. It rests right on the bedside desk and the light blinking on the screen. I reach over, looking at the caller before frowning as the screen shows only the number, as it vibrates on my palm.

Despite my hesitations, I answer the phone and place it next to my ear, hearing the person on the other line breathe out with relief. "Thank goodness, Clary. I thought you weren't going to pick up," he says and I recognize that voice before sighing in relief. I can hear him smiling, almost laughing at himself, and I form a small grin.

"How did you get my number?"

"Luke," he says briefly. "I asked your number last night, since we're friends and it'd be good for some casual conversations—" He suddenly stops talking as I stifle a giggle from my throat, and I imagine the smile on his face widens. "Wait, why are you laughing?"

"Are you almost like this?" I ask him back, still smiling.

"Like what?"

"You sound crazy, you know," I hear the loudest silence crash over the line between us and I try to break it, but the words twist inside my throat. He moves on the other line, as I listen to the shuffling of things, and I roll onto the remaining space of my bed.

"I'm picking you up later for school," he suddenly says,

"Sure," I mumble as I nod.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes sounds good," I reply and my voice sounds raspy over the line, with the silence swallowing our words. "So, I'll see you later, Simon?" I ask him, as I imagine him nod. He didn't reply for a little while and he dismisses our conversation, with such short words and uncertainty replaying over and over again.

"Yeah, sure. Bye."

The line ends as he puts down the phone.

As the silence creeps in again, I reach to the closet and grab the rest of the clothes hanging on the rack before entering the bathroom. I strip my nightclothes and pull down the new ones into my petite figure, pushing my curls out of the neckline.

I stare at myself in front mirror, seeing how much scared I am for what might happen on the first day of school. I don't know. I am never sure of anything, and that is the pain of being scared in your entire life; you are afraid of everything.

Walking out the bathroom, I gather the books I bought yesterday, and push them inside the empty bag hanging behind the door. I stare at myself again at the long mirror standing by the window, and smoothens the blue-striped sweater wrapped around my body.

I stare back at the clock and sigh deeply, before walking out.

* * *

><p>The living room feels warm, as I enter it.<p>

I see Mom behind the counter and preparing breakfast and I feel a small growl from my stomach, as if I hadn't tasted food for weeks. As I approach the counter, she turns away from the stove and faces me with bliss written all over her eyes.

She's already dressed for work, but loosed strands are pulled from the lace tied behind her head and dangling as she moves around. "Hey, morning," she greets as she lays the eggs and bacons over the plate with her wide smile on her lips. "Breakfast?"

I shake my head and return the smile, before saying, "I'm fine." Lie, and regretting it would be such a waste of time.

"Are you sure?" I hear the concern and I wonder if it's real.

"Yes," I mutter simply, grabbing an apple from the fruit basket and joggling it in each of my hands.

"So, ready for school?" I feel the struck of lightning in me as I hear her question—not knowing when I will ever be ready, or how to be ready in everything that awaits me.

But, then, I nod.

She rummages inside her purse and I take a small bite from the apple, before she hands me a thin bundle of money with the smile wider on her lips—unfading and still.

"Here's your allowance for the entire week," she says.

"Thanks," I mumble as I reach to it. "I'm going now. I really don't want to be late on the first day." Another lie; I just don't want to stand right here anymore, because I don't want her to see the uncertainty and precise distance between us.

"Sure." The smile on her face slowly fades, as I turn away from her, and the bizarre feeling of standing right in front of her—in the person that I should trust, but I can't—creeps in like a snake under my skin.

"I'll just see you tonight," she says and I nod again.

I walk out through the front door, with a sigh escaping my lips and see the familiar yellow van parked on the sidewalk. He had his arm outside his window and the other on the steering wheel, with a smile on his face. I run towards the van, before staring at him with glint eyes.

"Hey," he greets silently. I look away and show a faint curve on my lips, before sighing deeply once again. "Are you okay?"

I turn to him, realizing that he noticed the confused look in my irises and it suddenly vanishes as the smile on my face widens, before nodding my head at him. I feel him staring at me, unsatisfied.

"You sure," he asks.

"Simon, I'm fine. There's nothing for you worry about," I say and I run on the other side of the van, entering the passenger seat and settling myself comfortable.

_But there's so much to worry about me_, I thought quietly.

He turns the steering wheel to the right and drives back into the street along with the other vehicles in another round of silence.

* * *

><p>The van stops on the empty space, and Simon shifts down with his arm resting on my seat. I struggle to the back and grab my bag, and he watches me closely—his eyes searching mine. He shuts the engine off and the radio turns down, with the music ending immediately.<p>

I allow the silence consume me again, until he breaks it. "So, what's your first subject?" I turn my head at him as he asks me, before slinging the bag over my small shoulder, and stare back.

"I don't know yet," I shake my head, saying those words, and step out of the van; slamming the door back in. I catch his eyes as he smiles widely at me, before giving me a look—something that I couldn't forget within those seconds passing by between us.

He nods and says, "Well, if I were you, you better run now and get your schedule before the bell rings."

"What happens when _the bell rings_?" I frown.

"It's the start of another school year," he smiles the smile that I had not seen before; something wicked and blissful at once.

"Thanks again for the ride, Simon," I return the smile as I turn my head back from him and walk down the crowded parking space. I notice him nod, quickly before I could turn away with my smile still in place.

Sunlight beams directly into my face, as I walk towards the school hall and between the students—those who had known each other since kindergarten, maybe. I feel their eyes on me, and some stares as if I am a parasite and the rest really don't care.

How am I going to survive in a place like this? It's like jungle madness, I ask myself over and over again. The question inside my head prevails, replaying like a horrible song and all I could do is ignore, despite of how strong the anxiety is, as though nothing could ever break it.

I pass through the hallways, avoiding any eye contact with the people around me, and search for the principal's office instead. As I circle in the corridors, with my eyes focused on every corner, I feel my vision spinning uncontrollably and confusion clouds my eyes like a dense mist covering the mountain tops—and I bump into someone.

We both drop into our knees, with books scattering all across the floor, and apologies are fast exchanged. I recognize that voice, and I lift my head up in much surprise.

Isabelle.

As we rise together into our feet, I hand her the book she dropped and crooks the faint smile of bliss. "Clary," she exclaimed and I hear the same amount of astonishment in her tone before she breaks a smile. "I can't believe you're here, but it's really nice that you are. I just didn't actually expect we'd be on the same school, you know."

I nod at her. She breathes out and the smile still on her face, wider than mine, with the glint of her blue eyes striking. Her short red floral skirt flows above her thighs, matched with black-laced boots and heels no shorter than seven inches—which made her even taller. I glance at her black hair, spilling over her shoulder and some tied into a messy bun, just like my mother's when I left her this morning.

"Yeah, neither did I expect it," I smile. There's something good in it and incredibly real, that I never felt before and I just don't know why. But, something that I had felt only with her, with Simon.

The strange feeling of having a friend.

"Well, where are you heading?" My thoughts snap me out as I hear her ask me and we both start stalking down the halls, her books tug on her chest and heels stomping into the ground.

"Principal's office," I say, shifting the bag on my shoulders and resting my hand on the edge of my sweater, feeling completely strange walking with her in the halls. She waves at the students she seems to know as they smile warmly at her.

"And you seem to be quite popular here?" I frown, and smiles.

"Not really," she says without looking at me, "At least I'm not like those _bitches_ that care nothing but their reputations—if you get what I mean." I nod again and the silence between us floods in, as we enter into the office. Isabelle gestures me to approach the lady behind the desk, who seems snobbish and continues polishing her nails.

I walk towards the desk and lay my hands over the surface. She lifts her head up and I stare at her brown eyes. "Yes?" I hear her voice speaking sternly and pinpricking on my skin, with the horror creeping up as she still glares at me.

"I'm a new student, and I still don't have my schedule," I explain to her politely.

"Name?"

"Clarissa Fray," I say. In another moment, she prints out the schedule and hands it to me, before I turn my back on her. I hear the emery board scratch on her nails again, like sandpaper against my skin.

Isabelle leans on the doorframe and I walk back towards her, before I hear her asking, "Hey, did you get everything you need?" I look down at the schedule in my hands and nod at her.

"Good," she says. "What's the first subject?"

"Biology." I glance across the hall, and tilt my head behind as the teacher enters with two students and his hands on their necks, pushing them inside the office. I part my lips in surprise as he smiles at me wickedly, trying to shove the hand on his neck but unsuccessfully sighs in defeat.

"Isabelle, isn't that—"

"Jace," she finishes for me and I turn back to her in confusion. "It's not really new, Clary. It has always been like that, especially if you're the school's football team quarterback." I glance again and feel the heat rise into my cheeks as he winks at me, the moment he catches me staring.

Then, the bell rings.

* * *

><p>Isabelle strolls down the hall towards her Literature class, as I make my way towards my own room. I spin in between the crowd with eyes glancing on everything, and my head feels lightheaded and throbbing as pain strikes through me again.<p>

I sigh deeply as I stalk the corridor silently. The crowd has thinned and some enters their respective rooms, until I could hear nothing more except my own steps and breathing. As I reach the third door, the room number written over the door, I enter and the students settle down with the teacher rising from his desk and shutting the book.

"Okay, class." He stands on the platform, resting his hands behind his coat and a welcoming smile. "I expect that we'd pay more attention into my class, since we're all packed with projects," he says as I give him my transcripts and he points an empty seat at the end of the room.

On the other side, there is a glass window, where much of theNew Yorklandscapes are visible. I take the empty seat and drop my things over the table, and look out into the window. It's beyond beautiful than anything I've seen before—like the angle of each corner is well-defined, and how it relaxes my eyes from exhaustion.

I hear the chalk screeching over the board, as the teacher scribbles the words in such erratic way. I notice the pile of books and paperwork on his desk, with his nameplate standing on the edge. Imploding back from my thoughts, I turn my eyes towards the door, along with others, as another student arrives late. The teacher looks as if he had expected it and raises his eyebrows in disagreement.

Jace—the one who humiliates me the most.

Our eyes meet, with a cold spark of electricity creeping up into my spine, and I turn back into the landscape. But he remains staring at me, as I see his reflection against the glass, and I try to ignore.

The teacher speaks up, "You're late as usual, Mr. Lightwood. Have nothing changed over the summer?" I glance back at him and he shakes his head in response, crooking a teasing smile on his face.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Starkweather, but I had to run some errands. Quiet important actually—"

Errand with the principal, I suppose.

"Just take your seat, Mr. Lightwood," the teacher interrupts.

He walks inside the room and to the empty seat beside me, which makes me shuffle uncomfortably. Settling down, I see him lean close to me and he smiles widely, like catching my attention.

"Hey," he says but I ignore him, rolling my eyes over. "You know, I don't really get why you hate that much—"

"Because you're an ass," I seethe sharply and he leans back, relaxing on his seat and maintains the smile on his lips. It's the smile that I've always seen on him, and he's trying to get under my skin.

"Fine, be that way. I'm just being nice, Red."

"If that's your way of being nice, it's not working for anyone, especially me." I open my sketchpad and glance on the beautiful landscape, trying to ignore him, but he keeps on talking.

"It works for those who find me admirable," he says and I snap my head back at him in disbelief. I see him pointing on the girls from the corner, giggling as he waves at them, and I roll my eyes again. "It's only you who don't honestly have sense of humor—"

The teacher stops in front of him.

"Instead of flirting with the new student," he says and I lift my eyebrows at him in surprise. "You might want to mind your marks this semester, because I reckon you to do it." He hands Jace the test paper, dated back last year with a large D on the upper right corner.

I watch as he walks into his platform, and points the words on the board. _Human behavior_. I glance back at Jace, who rubs his blurry eyes with his fingers, and stare down at his figure. It's always been the same person that I've met on the coffee shop and the one sitting next to me right now—his golden curls tangled with each other as if he never comb his hair after waking up, and as he opens his eyes, darting past the teacher, I see his eyes and brighter than the sun itself.

"Like I said before, staring is much creepier than talking to me and I hope you'd try some time." I immediately turn away when he spoke, as he remains his eyes on Mr. Starkweather—but not anymore. I feel him now staring at me, and I couldn't help feel but melt.

"Human behavior," the teacher says on his half-awake students and I look towards him. He lowers his eyeglasses and looks across the room, before saying, "It'll be our new research topic for this semester, and everyone will be assigned in pairs. Now, since Mr. Lightwood is merely paying attention in my subject—I'll assign him to someone _reliable_." His eyes stop on me and I hear my name rolling on his tongue.

"Ms. Fray," he says.

I feel myself sinking into my seat, at the sound of my name after he says it, and heads turn to me. "What?" I ask him, with the mixture of emotions gushing over my chest and I feel the tight squeeze.

"You have got to be joking, Mr. Starkweather," Jace says and he is much surprised as I am. I hear words spreading on the thin air, like a virus, and things I didn't really want to hear from the people inside the room. My head starts splitting up again and everything moves in slow motion, as though time has stopped.

_It's more like a nightmare_, I thought to myself.

"I certainly am not joking," he says and turn to his desk, "since in Ms. Fray's transcripts, she has made quite an impression to me, and I do hope that you'll work on this project seriously, Jace—if you don't want to lose the scholarship that you've worked hard for."

He starts pairing up the remaining students. I feel the silence pull me again, despite the noise around me. Looking over at him, he presses his back on his seat and arms behind his head. I find his luminous eyes striking on Mr. Starkweather, but his face calm and still—with nothing more but annoyance.

"You're staring again," he notices and I look away. But he turns to me, with his eyelids slightly narrowing, but the smile remains. "I told you it's creepier than talking to me—"

"Oh, shut up." I roll my eyes over again, and he chuckles.

As the bell rings, students gather their things before rushing out of the classroom. I turn to Jace, he had already left, and I sigh. Walking on the aisle and towards Mr. Starkweather's desk, I call him and he lifts his head at me before dropping the pen over his book.

"Ms. Fray, is there something else you need?" He asks, before interlocking his fingers in between the spaces in his hands and I part my lips in response—trying to breathe out the words easily.

"I can't be paired up with him," I say.

"My decision is final, Ms. Fray, and I hope you do understand that I'm still the one in charged here," he says, lowering his eyeglasses and I sigh again in defeat. "I know it's hard to reciprocate with him—"

"Please, sir. I will do everything—"

"I'm certain that you will, Ms. Fray. You're clever, and if you help him improve through this research paper, I'll probably mix up the pairs. That'll be in a month," he explains as he stands and grabs his bag.

"_A month_?" I shriek franticly, my mouth drying and I feel my narrow throat locking up again. "I can't even stand being in the same room with him—sir, please."

"I know that. But consider that, it's only a month."

Then, he leaves the classroom.

* * *

><p>Tugging the books closer to my chest, I walk out my Calculus class, just as the bell rings and students gush in the hallway. I lose myself through those random thoughts inside my mind again, despite the noise behind me, and I reach to my locker at once.<p>

Just as I put the books inside, someone bumps on my side hard and I stumble into the ground with the books sliding across the floor. I look over and he gathers my books from the ground before handing it out to me. I stare at him in confusion and he helps me stand to my feet again.

"I apologize for that," he smirks.

"No, thank you." I say as I reach for my books.

"I'll see you around," then he leaves with his friends. He had those darkest eyes that I've seen and I almost reflect myself in his irises. It's as black as the sin and I feel myself drawing into it.

I shut my locker, before walking down the hall and in between the throngs of people. I crush the books into my chest, as I enter the lunchroom, where most of the students had descended. Glancing down at my watch, it's already fifteen minutes afternoonand I stand behind the line towards the counter.

After grabbing the lunch, I look over for an empty table as I realize that there aren't anymore. I let a deep sigh escape my mouth before turning away. Distantly, I heat someone shouting over my name and I look back before seeing Isabelle waving at her direction.

I walk towards their table, and look at the other two sitting next to her—one with thin curls exploding out of her lace and dark complexion all over her figure, but she is beautiful. I stare at the boy, with black hair and brown eyes flashing over the light, before Isabelle gestures me closer to them.

"Hey," I greet sheepishly with my voice sounding raspy.

"I'd like to introduce you to my friends—Maia and her boyfriend, Jordan," Isabelle says and her hands gesturing at them as she introduces me to them. "And this is Clary, the new student. I met her at the hospital the other day since she had her regular check-up."

"Hi, Clary," the boy, who I presume isJordan, says.

I give him a small wave and force my lips into another curve.

"It's really nice to meet you. And I heard so much about you, especially how you shoved Jace's massive ego into his ass," Maia grins. "You did a very good job."

Turning my head back, I feel his shoulder bumping against mine as he plops down next to his sister and I glare at him. "I heard that. And I beg to differ, batgirl, since she did not really _shove it into my ass_—it's just how she flirts," he explains.

I roll my eyes at his arrogance and take the seat beside Isabelle, feeling his gaze directly at me. Silence crashes again and I take a small sip from the milk carton before eating my lunch, until Isabelle breaks it.

"Mom will surely lash out when she hears about how you broke Aron Soles face across the hallway," Isabelle says.

"It's not the first time I've punched him face, dear sister. I've done that before and I'm sure Mom will understand," he ignores the concern in his sister's voice, still fishing the pieces of his food inside his mouth.

"Why did you break his face?" She is losing her temper, and I look at her with concern. "Is it because he's a nerd or another _bet_?"

"Because he's an asshole," Jace snaps. "He soaked my clothes from the locker room deep in coffee and vinegar—imagine how that smells? I need to make him pay."

"You should have told the principal," Isabelle raises her voice.

"And be a coward?" His brows lift in surprise, before he shakes his head before lowering down into his food. "I want some major damage on his reputation and face—now he got what he wanted."

"Okay, fine." Isabelle scowls, dropping her hands at the table in exasperation, and glares at him with rage. "Be such a dick, and don't dare ask for help when Mom starts beating the crap out of you."

"She never beats me—"

"Oh, maybe this time, Jace, she will."

"Whatever," is the only thing that slips out of his mouth when his sister has already provoked him. He seems tired, like he wants to rest on his bed for days without moving and sleep endlessly for hours. I stare at him for a short while, seeing the anger in his chest rising, as he finishes his food in silence.

Isabelle turns to me, before crooking a small grin. "I'm sorry. Don't mind us, it's really messy." I nod my head at her, understanding whatever she means despite of how dull her relationship with Jace is. "How is your first day going," she asks me.

"Good, actually. Red and I have biology together," he snaps.

"I'm not asking you, Jace. Shut up," Isabelle seethes at him, craning her head back and rolling her eyes at him.

"It's normal, I guess." I try to sound happy about it.

"Wait, you two have biology together?" Maia interrupts before Isabelle could say anything.

"Yes," I answer and nod my head at the same time.

"And we're assigned as research partners—"

"Jace!" Isabelle screeches silently, but I hear her smile as she does so before turning back at me. "I apologize on behalf of my brother because he's such a dick—"

"Don't worry, I know that." I nod at Isabelle.

I let the silence flood in again as I finish my lunch and take another sip in my milk carton. Maia cuddles closer with her boyfriend and I see Jace roll his eyes at the sight of them. Isabelle fixes her hair from the tie behind and still hisses at her brother when he starts arguing with Maia, and Jordan calming her down.

It's really chaotic. And all of the sudden, their voices volume down as I stare at them. "Here comes the bitch," Isabelle whispers to me and I look behind me—seeing someone stomping her stilettos into the floor even louder than Isabelle's and flips her dark curls behind.

She wears a short denim skirt over her thighs that barely cover her skin and a thin sleeveless white tank top. As she approaches the table, I scan my eyes from her toes to her face—which has more make-up than the clothes she wears. Tugging to her purse, she leans to Jace.

"Hey, Jace," she flirts. I feel the sudden urge of vomiting in front of her as she mumbles the name she has given him. "I thought you'd be having lunch with me and the football team. Sebastian has been waiting for her you over there." She points over the table on the second floor of the school building, where boys in varsity jackets have their own chaotic business going on, before she whispers something in his ear.

I look over the table and sight a familiar boy from the hall gazing at me, before turning away. It's the one who bumped me and gathered the books as he left. "I've changed my mind," Jace says without shifting his eyes over her and swallows down his drink.

The girl, Aline, narrows her eyes and turns to me.

"And this must be the new student," she brightens as she says those words, which made me flinch. "Catherine, is it?" Bitch, I thought. I had no idea where she heard that name or if she's making that up.

"Clarissa," I roll my eyes.

She turns back to him and kisses his cheeks, but he shoves her away and I smile as she shifts in surprise. "I'll see you in the field, Jace. And it is really nice to meet you, Cathy." I nod at her. "Bye."

"Gosh, I really hate that—"

"Bitch?" Jace finishes for his sister and smirks.

"Person," I hear Isabelle corrects him, and narrows her eyes. "Why do you even that _person_, or at least, why did you?" I hint the desperation for an answer in her tonality and move the empty milk carton and tray of pasta on the side, ignoring them as they argue again.

"It's nothing personal."

"Girls aren't toys. You can't just pick them up and drop them whenever you want," Isabelle mocks him and slaps his arm in rage. Her face has gone red and grumbles in her seat.

Jace winces in pain and glares at her, before snorting back, "Ouch! Is that really necessary?"

"I don't get boys," Isabelle rolls her eyes. "They're all liars."

Jace laughs and that's the first that I heard all this day. As he shakes his head at his sister, the sound that erupted from his throat lowers into a small chuckle and down into his smile.

"I don't get girls. They're always overreacting," he says back.

"Overreacting?" Isabelle demands, her blue eyes widely glaring, and she starts arguing with him again.

"Don't worry. It's normal for them," I turn to Maia as she says, before she rises from her seat withJordanand walking out of the cafeteria. I sigh and the bell rings again.

It's going to be a very long day, I thought.

* * *

><p><strong>How was it? Reviews please.<strong>


	7. Note

Okay. I really hate to do this, but I have to. Or I might as well lose all my readers. It sucks when you're attacked by writer's block again. It's like being thrown into the head with a thick hard brick. And I'm kinda busy with another story and I need to finish plotting halfway through that story before continuing this one again. But I am certain that I will still continue the story; as a matter fact, I already know the ending and still plotting the midst of it. It's just I still don't know how to continue it. Anyways, it's all good and I'm just going to have a little break with writing. I'm doing most of the plotting first and then dialogues and then, the narration. So, maybe I'll be back in two weeks or three. I don't know. And good reading to you all!

Did I mention that my new favorite book is Pride and Prejudice? I love Darcy. Share.

And thank you for those who reviewed my story and who read it despite of how creepy it sounds. Just thank you, really made my day.

- Stella.


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